Seven Years Later
by Meredith A. Jones
Summary: {Matchstick Men} The old life finds itself back in Roy's face when he sees a con man in the diner he hasn't been in for seven years...he soon finds himself face-to-face with an old partner, too. (Rated for mild language) REVIEW lol
1. Chapter 1

Seven Years Later  
Chapter 1 

Disclaimer: Don't own the book, Matchstick Men, by Eric Garcia..yadda yadda.

A/N: A few ideas I had and decided to jumble them together. Might make a good story. I'll let the reviewers judge.

Another note: this isn't one shot...I'll have another chapter out.

Roy hadn't been in the diner in years. Seven. Maybe. He walked in alone and inspected the scene, as he had when he was back working with Frankie. This thought about his partner hadn't come to him until earlier in the day, when he was sitting in the living room staring out the window as he had been doing a lot lately.

He had moved into a low-rent apartment building, and managed to keep that because of the sale of the paintings he had. He had no choice. But he soon became low on the dough and got a job at a bookstore, selling everything from comics to 2000 page books that only the bigtime book readers read. He would sit at the counter watching little kids chase each other around, and their mothers chase them around, and it brought a smile to his face. Then he'd tap his fingers on the glass counter, and look down and see his bare left hand, sigh, and help the person next in line.

After a while, he drove by his old house, seeing the For Sale sign still stuck in the lawn, and smiled. He had enough to buy it back.

---::---

Now Roy sat on a bar stool and looked around the diner for a waitress. He saw only a few couples, an older woman, a man on his own, much like Roy.

"Hi," a scratchy voice came from in front of him, one that could belong to either a man or a woman. It was indistinguishable. Roy turned his head to look at a heavy woman, her face painted with layers and layers of makeup, and red nails curled around a half empty pot of coffee. The stereotypical diner waitress.

"Hi," Roy said back, "Is Sandi still working here?" He felt like he was getting his hopes up too much. If his old waitress friend had seen him, she would have by now.

"Nah, she moved out of state. What do you want?" Roy sighed.

"Turkey on rye," he said.

"Anything to drink?"

"Water," said Roy. The waitress clomped off in her thick high heeled shoes with a grunt, behind the swinging doors to the kitchen, leaving Roy to himself, listening to an old song playing on the radio and the low murmur of casual conversation. One stuck out, however.

"...Well, I don't know. This is all I have for a few months..."

"I promise, I'll bring you the change. I just need 10 dollars of it. Please. Just for a meal...I'll - what's your phone number? If you leave before I do, I'll call you and bring the money to you. Please?" Roy turned around in his bar stool. The alone man had left his table, and now was at the old woman's. She looked about 75 years old. She could have even been older; old women these days, they look good.

"100 dollars only for you to take ten?"

"Well, if you have a ten on you, I can just take that."

"No...I just gave my last ten to the waitress over there."

"Please, please, I promise I'll give you the change...I'll pay you back, I promise." The man was practically on his knees now, tears misting his eyes. This guy was pretty good. The woman sighed.

"No, I'm sorry..." The man huffed and stood. "Then can I make some of it into change to make a phone call? It'll only take a second."

"Alright. But only for a phone call, young man. I'll be watching

"Okay..." The man left towards the bathrooms, looking for an exit. The woman watched suspiciously. Roy stood and began walking past her, and knocked her purse off of the table.

"Oh, I'm sorry, miss...here, I'll clean it right up." The woman took her attention off of the man, who was still desperately looking for an exit, and looked at the things she had scattered on the floor. He bent down and stood the purse upright, dumping the contents into it. A few stray bills he slipped up his sleeve so fast you wouldn't even know there was anything there before. He didn't know why he was doing this, he was out. Out of the matchstick business. Done with the games

"It's fine, dear. Fine." Roy looked in the direction the man had gone, and found that he had disappeared. He gave the woman a curt nod once he finished and plopped the bag onto the table again, and walked across the diner to the restrooms. Turned the corner to find the man, who screamed at the surprise. Roy slapped a hand over his mouth and pulled him into the men's restroom

"Not bad," he said

"What do you mean, not bad?"

"Haven't seen anyone like you around in a long time"What are you talking about?" The guy was good...like Roy had told himself.

"The C," he said to the man, who smiled a bit.

"You're a con man, aren't you?"

"Used to be," said Roy. "Here." He pulled the bills out from his sleeve and handed them to the man. "Few extras I found. Looks like she was conning you as much as you were conning her

"The old bag..." There was a pause, and the man tucked the money in his pocket. "You sure you don't want it?"

"Positive."

"Randy."

"Roy." They shook.

"So you got a partner?"

"Did...he left though. Left me with all the money I owned..." Randy shook his head.

"Can't trust anyone in the business, can you?"

"Nope," said Roy. "How long you been at it?"

"A few years...about four. When did you lose your partner?"

"Seven years ago. Maybe eight."

"Sorry to hear that..." Another pause. "Hey, if you ever think about getting back in...you know...gimme a call." Randy flipped a card out of his pocket and gave it to Roy. He winked

"Thanks, Roy." And he was gone out the restroom. Roy looked at the card and snorted. _Antiques Dealer, my ass_, he thought.

A/N: More on the way for people who are reading this haha.


	2. Chapter 2

Seven Years Later  
Chapter 2 

A/N: No one's been reading this, really, but I'm writing it for my own enjoyment and to get these ideas out of my head. It's gettin on my nerves having them in there.

I've decided to write this in present tense, as Eric Garcia writes his book. See what I can do with it.

---::---

Roy sits in his recliner, staring absently out the window. His house still isn't as furnished as it used to be. Roy doesn't see the need for so much furniture. No one had been in the house in ages.

The bookstore is closed today. Sunday. Roy's a bit upset about this, as while he's off work, he does nothing but sit in his recliner and think. Boring. Nothing to do. Takes a sip from the water glass in his hand. Stares at the ceiling, head back on the top of the back of the chair. He thinks about calling Randy, the man he had met the day before in the diner after work. Digs in his bathrobe and pulls out the small cream colored business card. The golden letters shine back at him as he tilts it gently in his fingertips. '_RANDALL JENKINS_;_ DEALER OF FINE ANTIQUES_ _Woodland Hills, California_.' Roy sits up in his chair. Decides to call the guy. To at least meet up with him and see his other techniques. See what games he knows, his style. Who knows? Maybe he might get back into the whole mess. Roy sits back again. No. That's what it is, a mess. A big mess that he has already cleaned up and doesn't wish to clean up over again. He doesn't like messes. They make him uncomfortable. Make him nauseous. Especially messes that keep on getting messy, or messes that don't want to be cleaned up. Stains. Roy instinctively looks at his carpet. Frowns. What is he kidding himself? There's nothing there. There's not going to be anything there. He keeps his house spotless. He looks at the ceiling again. What if he just called to talk? He didn't know that Roy never called anyone. Didn't know he didn't have any close friends or family. He reaches for the cordless and dials the number on the card. Two rings and a pickup.

"Hello?"

"Hi, uh, Randy, this is Roy." Roy looks out the window again. A bird takes a dive. Poops on his driveway. He grimaces. Stands.

"Oh, hey Roy. Whadja call for?" Roy thinks. He really did call just to chat. Honestly. Truely. Maybe. But grown men don't usually call each other to talk. Or do they? Roy doesn't know many grown men.

"Do you want to come over say...Saturday? Discuss...things?" Randy, back at his house, smiles. He might just have a partner now. No more doing things on his own. Relying on too much chance. Chance is bad. Everything has to be planned. Perfect. Flawless.

"Sure."

"Actually, you know what, don't come here, you don't want to come here," says Roy. Puts on his slippers, unlocks all of the locks. Releases the dead bolt. Goes into the kitchen.

"Okay, where do you want to meet?" Randy places a cigarette between his lips and inhales.

"It's a book store on Vera. Meet me there on Saturday at two o'clock." Roy grabs a paper towel. Grabs another one. And another one. Goes to the door.

"McCarthy's? Yeah, I know that place."

"Yeah, McCarthy's. Meet me there." Locks the door up again. Unlocks it.

"How much are we gonna be able to talk, though? Not exactly the noisiest of places, you know? People will listen, readin' them books." Randy toys with his cigarette, spins around in his chair.

"No one at McCarthy's will listen. When someone reads a book, they usually don't pay attention to their surroundings. Fat man standin' there with a goatee waitin' in line, two seconds later it seems, they look up, and some tiny woman's there. Look at their watch, it's been ten minutes. The corner where all the books on accordions is safe. No one's ever standing around there. I'll move a table over there. No one'll sense a thing." Locks it. Unlocks it. Opens the door. Sun pours in, attacking his eyes and face like a hot iron. It must be over 100 degrees out. Or the air conditioning is too high and it's only 70.

"Sounds good. See you at two."

"See you at two." Randy hangs up. Roy hangs up. Slips the phone into the pocket of his bathrobe, and steps out onto the stoop. Onto the walkway, and then onto the pavement. Paper towels are ready, and at hand. The pavement is hot. Scorching the bottoms of Roy's feet, even through the rubber of his bedroom slippers. He can feel the ultraviolet rays hitting his face. Soaking through the openings in his cheeks, nose, forehead. Damaging cells, killing them. Better make this fast. He bends down, puts the paper towel over the bird poop and wipes it up, making a face. Bile rising in his throat. His hands are touching it. Touching it through the paper towel. Germs are seeping through the material, worming into his skin. Roy wipes the bits up. Vision blurring. He runs up the walk, bile still rising, making him cough. Jumps in his house, locks the door. Unlocks it. Locks it. Unlocks it. Locks it. Runs to the bathroom. Slams the door.

A/N: More to come. REVIEW. PLEASE.

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 1: 

**Liz: **I wrote more...and no, Justin isn't sexy. Please get over it.


End file.
